Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Don't blame me if i don't post often. Blame She Who Must Be Held ALL THE TIME.

It took me at least a half an hour to type this with one hand because a certain someone refuses to be put down. Ever.

Yes, I have a sling and I use it constantly and yet, there's something about the sweatiness of my bare arm that lulls my child to sleep. Nothing says comfort like second hand body wetness.

There are more hours than I wish to admit that I find myself carrying this girl just to stop her from screaming. I think she's still pissed off about being evicted from my uterus. Not only was she ten days late but she also came out with the umbilical cord wrapped around her leg three times and once around her waist. I'm only surprised she didn't come out shouting "ATTICA! ATTICA! ATTICA!"

One good thing about toting around a baby: My biceps are going to look amazing by the end of the summer. But if I don't watch myself, since I tend to carry her in the crook of my left arm, I'll start looking like Reggie from Lady in the Water with one well muscled arm and one, um, not.

This may work for M. Knight but that look does nothing for this Chicky.

So if you don't hear from me as often for the next few weeks it's because I'm physically tied to this little human being.

She's snoring so maybe I can put her in her swing for awhile. Wish me luck. Or, at least, wish me stronger muscles.

Monday, June 23, 2008

The forecast for today and tonight is going to be... Dark, because George Carlin passed away yesterday from heart failure. No, sorry, he didn't pass away. We didn't lose him. He died. And he was only 71. That sucks, Man.

Maybe you knew him for his notorious Seven Dirty Words. Or maybe as the Hippie Dippy Weatherman. I knew him as the man who was in some way, either directly or through my father who is a HUGE fan of Carlin's, almost totally responsible for me having a mouth like a trucker.

Thanks a fucking lot, George.

The effect George Carlin had on my father is profound. Listening to my dad talk is like listening to a Carlin show, and it goes beyond blatantly stealing lines from his act. Even the way my dad talks, the cadence of his speech and the rise and fall of his voice is a rip-off of George Carlin. It used to bug me, I used to wish my dad would get his own shtick, but now I know it was the highest form of flattery. Imitation to the point where he didn't even know he was imitating the man any more. He was trying to become the man whose opinions he greatly respected, and through that it shaped the way I thought too.

So in honor of the man who should have been making us laugh well into his 80's and 90's, I'm going to use the word Cocksucker as much as possible today. Maybe I'll poke fun at religion in mixed company. At the very least I can say things as they are and not use any soft language. The world is fucked up but there's a lot of humor to be found in it and we have George Carlin to thank for that.

Thursday, June 19, 2008

It's true what everyone says - A parent's heart grows to accommodate the love for their second child.

I wasn't sure if I believed that before I had C.C. - I mean, how is it possible to love someone as much as you do your first born? Then again, I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to love anything as much as I loved my dogs. And yes, that's more than a little screwed up - but now I do. My heart has grown and stretched to accept this new child, much like my stomach grew (and grew, and grew) to accept her as she grew inside me.

If this sounds disgustingly cliche, even throw-up-in-your-mouth repulsive, it is. It's horribly sappy and sentimental. Ooh, a mother's love knows no bounds. A mother loves her children equally.

Blech.

If I don't watch out, the next time I use the toilet rainbow colored unicorns might shoot out of my arse.

I've found, however, that this horrible sentimentality is necessary to the survival of the first born child more than for the emotional well being of the latest addition. Actually, it's necessary to all parties involved but to the eldest, or elder children if there is more than two children in your family, especially. If a mother's heart didn't accommodate all her children, then how would the first be allowed to survive when they insist on pushing the sleeping infant in her battery powered swing when the baby is FINALLY SLEEPING AFTER SCREAMING FOR THE PAST HOUR and OMG, IF YOU WAKE HER I WILL MAKE YOU SLEEP IN THE GARAGE? OH, LOOK! YOU WOKE HER UP. COME HERE SO I CAN SQUEEEEEZE YOU REALLY TIGHT, MY SWEET.

The love, man, it's overwhelming.

Chicky loves her "Baby Sister Caroline", as she must be called at all times so that it flows from the child's mouth as all one word. She loves her to a fault. She wants to hold her constantly, especially when the baby is sleeping or attached to my nipple.

"Can I hold her?"

Not right now.

"Can I hold her, puh-weeze?"

Later.

"Can I hold her now?"

Not. Right. Now.

"Mama, can I hold mybabysistercaroline NOW?"

Anyone have an ice pick I can jam in my ear?

Repeat at least 50 more times until I finally get exasperated enough to shoot laser beams from my eyes in her general direction. And then repeat another 50 times because she can deftly avoid the laser beams at this point.

"But why can't I hold her?" *Whine. Kick. Stomp. Hit the couch in the general area of where I'm sitting and throw a toy.*

Uh, because she's using my breast as a chew toy right now, Honey. Now run along and play with something sharp, m'kay?

I love Chicky. I think I love her even more now that C.C. is around, and I'd have to because I've never been closer to pitching her out a window as I am on any given day. Even closer than when she was a colicky infant and she would scream for 20 hours out of every 24. I love her because she pushes me and, even though I'm pushed passed my limits and snap on more occasions than I'd like to admit, the next day I'm better equipped to handle her. I love her because she makes me go to that dark place that parents go to sometimes but can just as quickly snap me out of it so that I'm smothering the poor girl with kisses instead of a pillow. I love her because when I can talk her off that ledge of full-fledged preschooler meltdown, I feel pretty damn good about myself as a parent.

(Step away from the tantrum. That's right, put down that My Little Pony you were planning on throwing at my head and come give your Mama a kiss. Good girl. Here's a bag of sugary cookies now run along and play in traffic.)

(Crisis averted. I freaking ROCK. Yeah.)

Now, lest you think I'm on top of this game let me put those thoughts to rest right now. I'm running out of ideas here. Since Chicky is in such desperate need to help out and pitch in when it comes to her sister I need to involve her as much as possible or dare incur the wrath of Psycho Chicky.

Psycho Chicky? Qu'est-ce que c'est?

That's the part of her personality where the whining reaches window-shattering decibels and if you don't look out someone is going to get hurt. She's prone to dramatic meltdowns but I have never seen her go so far off the edge of reason than since we brought C.C. home.

We do what we can to keep her involved - everything from fetching diapers to handing over baby wipes to throwing away the dirty diapers (Hey, she insists) - but even though I have the most proficient pooper in the world living under my roof and waking me up every few hours to feast from my fun bags, there are only so many diaper changes a day. After that... Uh...

Yeah, I've got nothing.

I'm sure we'll work it out and life with two girls will become easier. Probably just in time for puberty to set in and the real fun starts.

Until then, I'll try to allow the excess love to flow from me and wash over my dear children. Maybe it will rinse some of the drama away. Or maybe we'll just end up all wet.

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

Awhile back, Sarah asked me to describe my dream house. I was being kind of silly when I wrote about it never thinking we'd ever find anything like what I had described.

Well, guess what? We found it. My dream house really exists and it's up for sale.

A week after C.C. was born, on a 95 degree day, we went to take a look at the inside. I don't know why we even bothered because I was sold before we even drove up the driveway. It's not the complete realization of my dream home (no pool, not by the ocean, no 48" gas range - yet.) but just about everything else was exactly how I had imagined my forever house to be.

Mr. C took one look at my face and knew I had to have the house. The poor guy hardly had a say. I guess I owe the man a few favors. Ahem.

So this past week while I should have been still resting a bit, we were viewing the house a second time and having meetings with our realtor. Then we spent the weekend in negotiations with the owners (who just happened to also be the listing realtors and the builders of this home. Can you say "Emotionally invested"? I knew you could.). After some bumpy first offers we finally settled on a price yesterday. Which means...

Holy shite! We're moving into my dream house at the end of the summer!!

That's just the front yard. Mr. C and I are already planning the first whiffle ball tournament on that lawn. Anyone want to play second base?

I think I need to lie down.

Sure, Mr. C will be even more indebted to "the man" and I'll be going back to work a little sooner than we had planned and I might have to sell a kidney or other vital organ to pay for the place, but seeing my girls run around the large yard getting grass stains on their knees will be worth it. Bringing them out back and walking through a small path to see the horses graze in the farm behind us will be worth it. Taking my dogs and my kids and walking out our driveway and almost immediately into the abutting conservation land for long hikes on nice days will be worth it. Sipping wine on my front porch or in my sunroom or in the jacuzzi tub right outside my bathroom, naked because there are hardly any neighbors to see my flabby ass, will be so freaking worth it.

However...

(you knew there had to be one.)

It may sound strange but I'm completely terrified. I don't think it necessarily has anything to do with making payments but everything to do with my dream being realized. I can't explain it, it just makes me jittery. Feel free to psychoanalyze me.

Adding to our good fortune, and my jitters, my inlaws are buying our home so they can be closer to their granddaughters. It makes me feel a lot better about selling this place, the home where Mr. C and I got married, where we brought our kids home to, where our pool is (ahem), where we put our blood, sweat and tears in to, to keep it in the family.

For the past week I've been pouring over the pictures of this house but never daring to dream of where I would put my living room furniture or what color I would paint the baby's room. But now I can.

Holy crap.

I'm starting to feel woozy now. But there's no rest for me, Mama needs to find a job. I may be realizing one of my dreams but this dream don't come cheap.

Saturday, June 14, 2008

Or I could spend my time trying to decide what part of her to start chewing on first. The fleshy part of the upper arm? Those plump little lips? Ooh, I know! The cheeks! Yeah, totally the cheeks. I just want to chew on them until she screams. Nom, nom, nom...

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

I nursed Chicky for a full year. After delivering C.C., the nurses apparently took that information to mean that I was an old pro at this breastfeeding thing, which couldn't be farther from the truth, and only offered me minimal help and advice. To be fair, while in the hospital C.C. seemed to take to nursing like a fish to water but since being home she's gotten a little lazy. Her latch is good but her mouth seems too... Small? Not to downplay things but nursing is not going well.

Oh, the pain!

A couple of days ago it got so bad that I was literally screaming into pillows to muffle my cries. I bit into the pillows too. Anything to keep from punching my poor husband in the balls for putting me back into this position.

We're working through things but it's still very painful and if I read one more website that says if I'm nursing my baby properly it won't hurt I may very well start writing threatening emails to the La Leche League complete with pictures of my bleeding nipples (sorry, too much info? It had to be said. It's just not cool to find blood in your breast pads.).

And to add insult to injury we're going through a horrible heat wave in this part of the country and that always seems to bring about a raging case of mastitis when coupled with a less than perfect latch. I went through this a number of times with Chicky but it never gets easier to deal with, does it?

I just need to know one thing - If nursing is so natural then why is it so damn hard?

Saturday, June 07, 2008

And and... Boobs aren't normally ready to spontaneously fall off and crawl away in painful defeat? Mine were once free of the hungry badger that now hangs off them? Gah-aawwn.

And and and... There once was a time when I didn't have this beautiful, perfect little human being in my life? I really can't remember it.

Our new girl, C.C. as she will be referred to henceforth (or until I get sick of that nickname and decide to change it), is a champion daytime sleeper and a party animal at night. She is a blue ribbon nurser who has shred my poor nipples to bits with her improper latch but we're working on that. She is the new love of my life but has created her own spot in my heart instead of pushing her sister from her perch. I'm truly lucky.

And more than just a little stir crazy. I can work on that.

I don't rest well but this time, with this baby, I am forcing myself to stop and enjoy and take care of myself and her. That is very different for me.

But change is good, right? Okay, sometimes it's good and sometimes it freaks me right the heck out but in this case it's very good.

Monday, June 02, 2008

We'd like to introduce you to our latest, if not more than fashionably late, addition to the family. 8lbs 4oz, 20 1/2 inches long, and one fantastic faux hawk in the making. Mom, Dad and baby are doing well while Chicky spends time with her grandparents, being allowed to eat chocolate covered donuts and being spoiled rotten.